Three Words, Eight Letters
by Princess Sammi
Summary: *Two-shot: Set post-Carried Away/The Dragon's Hoard - Established HB/Drill.* Following Constance's accident on the boat, Imogen realises how close she came to losing her, and decides to tell the witch those all-important words.


**Disclaimer: I don't own 'The Worst Witch'. **

**A/N: Hi, folks. This is the first part of a little two-shot that I have been working on, while trying to shift my writer's block for everything else, lol. I will upload for now but I may do some revising at a later date. The second part shouldn't take overly long to materialise... *in theory* **

**Hope you enjoy :)**

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><p><span><strong>Three Words, Eight Letters<strong>

Fresh tears pricked at her bloodshot eyes as she took in the sight of her beautiful girlfriend, who was in a rare slumber, and realised just how truly close she had come to losing her. Despite her earlier attempts to block it out, it remained at the forefront of her mind. A sharp pain searing through her heart at the mere thought of what could have been – and what all-too nearly was.

It was a truth that was now shining furiously back at her, much like the deep purple bruising on the witch's forehead.

"Imogen," her lover's voice suddenly broke through the silence.

She jumped guiltily, rather resembling a small child, one caught with their hand in the sweetie jar before dinnertime. In hindsight, she felt slightly foolish for even thinking that the sorceress would not know she was there. There was a definite probability of truth in the rumours of the witch possessing a sixth sense.

She was able to make out the outline of the potions mistress, who was nonchalantly trying to shield her still sensitive senses from the lights of the corridor. Though the lights were not overly bright, to the witch, they might as well have been laser beams: the contrast between her chamber and the corridor, quite literally being night and day.

"Stop watching me when I am trying to sleep; you know how it creeps me out." Constance muttered the last part of her sentence into her pillow, rather than directing it to the gym-mistress, almost as if she was ashamed of admitting to such a weakness.

"Sorry, darling. How are you feeling?"

Not having the energy to chastise Imogen over her use of pet names, she chose to ignore the term of endearment…and the way her heart had flipped a little as the non-witch had said it.

"I'm fine." She stated simply.

Her tone did not even try to hide the inconvenience that resting was causing her, making her sound more like a fussy two-year old, rather than the grown woman she was.

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><p>As soon as Form Two had landed in the school courtyard, evidently still in high spirits from their week away at Rowan Webb's Riverside Retreat, Amelia had practically ordered a somewhat unamused Constance onto bed rest. Still haunted by the images of finding her deputy headmistress; the woman who was akin to her daughter, unconscious on a little boat, which was nearly swept over the waterfalls, the worry and concern in the tones of the elderly witch had been all too clear.<p>

Unsurprisingly, a horrified Constance had immediately refused, citing that she had important things to attend to, and that – for the 48th time – she was perfectly fine. She had relented, eventually, but only after Miss Cackle had issued her with an ultimatum: she either took two days off over the weekend, before returning to teaching on Monday or her headmistress was signing her off as sick for the entire week - and possibly the week thereafter, *just* to make sure. Sensing that she was beaten, Miss Hardbroom had reluctantly agreed, silently congratulating a worthy opponent.

Oh yes, Amelia Cackle could be quite the schemer when she had to be.

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><p>Although she would never admit it - and would staunchly deny it if anyone asked -, a small part of Constance was rather glad of the rest.<p>

Her head was still thumping and her vision remained sporadically jumpy.

The headache potion she had taken before the flight home earlier in the morning had done little to alleviate her suffering and it had taken her every ounce of willpower she possessed just to concentrate on flying her broomstick in a straight line – she did not plan on doing a Mildred Hubble and crash-landing amongst the bushes and the brambles.

"For goodness sake, Imogen! Either come in or don't! Just please stop hovering around my chamber like some demented fly…and close the door."

Looking rather sheepish, Imogen Drill stepped into the room, quietly closing the door behind her, while Constance pushed herself up into a sitting position, lighting the candle on her bedside table with a flick of her wrist. A soft glow filled the room but not so bright, that it would burn her through her eyes and make her already aching cranium want to split in two.

The candlelight was nice…

... Romantic, even.

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><p>Running her fingers through Constance's long dark hair, occasionally twisting tendrils around her fingers, Imogen marvelled, as she always did, at the luscious locks the deputy's tight bun unleashed; the loose curls tumbling down her back like an inky waterfall.<p>

The witch was gorgeous, yet she could not see it. The soft glow of light coming from the candle only emphasised her already striking features: her long dark hair, her porcelain skin, her high and well-defined cheekbones, and that was before you even took the brains, the grace and the magical power into account. Imogen was certain that, had she wanted, Constance could have had any man (or woman), so why had she chosen her…?

A non-witch.

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><p>Constance had instinctively tensed up, still getting used to the invasion of what she termed her "personal space", but it had taken no time at all for her to relax under Imogen's familiar and gentle touch. Allowing herself to lean back, resting her head on Imogen's chest, she let the blonde continue to play with her hair, surprised herself at how natural it felt. Her long eyelashes fluttered closed and her breathing came slow and steady – she was not asleep; she was content.<p>

In fact, dare she say, she was happy.

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><p>A low hiss of pain snapped Imogen from her reverie, realising instantly that while she had been playing with the witch's hair, she had accidentally brushed the sensitive sore spot on Constance's head.<p>

"Shit! Sorry, Con-"

"It's fine."

Taking one of the pale hands in her own, Imogen intertwined their fingers, before bringing their joined hands up to her lips and placing a small kiss on the back of the brunette's hand.

"My poorly Constance," she whispered softly, "I-I don't know what would h-h-have happened if Mildred hadn't of been there."

"Well, given that I had absolutely no awareness of what was going on, let alone any way of stopping it, I would most likely have died, Imogen."

There was no fear in her voice, just a blunt tone of acceptance.

What had been a calm and serene bliss, suddenly grew to an awkward silence between the two lovers. It rather scared Imogen how Constance seemed to have no fear of her own mortality.

Despite her love of the great outdoors, of extreme sports and adventure holidays, despite the exhilaration and thrills she got from snowboarding, rock-climbing and white-water-rafting, Imogen Drill was still terrified of death. For Constance, however, this was not the case.

It was true.

Constance Hardbroom did not fear death.

How could she fear something that she had spent so much of her youth years praying for?

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><p><em><strong>Curled up in the furthest corner of the room, a little girl wrapped her arms further around her delicate frame, desperately trying to snatch even an ounce of heat from the seemingly frozen air; her efforts proving futile as the ice-cold temperature seeped further into her already chilled bones.<strong>_

_**Her terrified eyes glanced around the room, almost as though she was hoping to find a saviour in the surrounding darkness, but there was no prince charming and there was no knight in shining armour, just an endless abyss of black.**_

_**Silence.**_

_**She did not know how long she had been in here. It could have been days or weeks, hell, it could have been mere minutes; there was simply no way of knowing, all sense of time was lost in her small and suffocating cell. She wondered if Heckitty was ever coming back for her or whether she was going to leave her to rot, condemning her for all eternity in a darkened hellhole.**_

_**Biting down hard on her lip, she stifled a scream as a sharp and sudden pain rippled through her aching ribs, forcing her to double over in agony as she clutched fruitlessly at them, praying to a god she did not believe in that the pain would stop, knowing that her prayers would go unanswered; her fate was long sealed. **_

_**The familiar click of heels in the corridor outside sent an icy fear crashing through her veins; the footsteps deliberately slow as they toyed with her, drawing out the torture that awaited her. She curled further into herself as the key was placed in the lock, she knew she was expected to be standing but her mind was no longer thinking straight, frightened utterances falling from her cracked lips as she begged for release from a cruel world and a merciless monster…**_

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><p>Sensing the look on her girlfriend's face, Constance immediately felt a pang of guilt pierce her heart - and heart that she knew many believed her not to have. She was all too aware of her 'Ice Queen' nickname amongst the rest of the school; the one they believed she knew nothing about. She knew though.<p>

She knew…

As much as she had tried to convince herself that it did not bother her, it did. The phrase touched a raw nerve in the witch, who was - despite outer appearances - plagued with insecurities, self-doubt and was, quite honestly, lost. In fact, she had been for a very long time, her fractured mind slowly splitting into pieces as she held it together through, what was, essentially, the performance of a lifetime.

It was better they thought her cold rather than let them see the truth; she could not bear to be treated so fragile.

"Besides," she continued on, repositioning herself slightly so that she was now facing Imogen and masking the crack in her voice with a well-executed precision. "Let us not forget that if Mildred Hubble hadn't of disobeyed a _direct order_, then I would not have needed…rescuing in the first place!"

Despite the firmness that was present in her tone, her eyes told a very different story. If the gym mistress wasn't mistaken, there seemed to be guilt swimming in the deep brown of her irises.

"Are you going to punish her?" she asked tentatively, sensing that something was troubling the older woman but knowing she could not push her to disclose outright.

Constance simply sighed in response, breaking eye contact with the blonde and staring down at the bedcovers as though they were one of the great interest points of the world.

While she knew that Mildred's actions had indeed caused her accident (further aided by Ethel and Drusilla's downright dangerous antics), it had in fact been _her own_ mistrust and suspicions of the worst witch, which had caused her to go and investigate the boat. She had seen enough of the girl's strange behaviour (stranger than normal!) to know that something was awry, her teacher senses kicking in instantly as she resolved to find out the truth.

Furthermore, taking Tabby away from Mildred had been **her** idea…

…and she could not help the guilt that consumed her.

It broke the non-witch's heart to see the apparent inner struggle that the sorceress was battling.

"It wasn't your fault."

The words spoken were quiet, so quiet they barely graced the air. It was almost as if she was scared of speaking out of turn.

Constance said nothing in reply, but still refused to meet the eyes of the PE teacher. A heavy silence filled the air, broken only by the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall. Unsure whether or not she had been heard, Imogen made the decision to try again.

Gingerly, she reached under the older woman's chin, lifting it up until their eyes met. The witch's brown eyes swimming with unshed tears.

"Listen to me, Constance. It wasn't your fault."

Constance cursed as a lone tear escaped from its boundary and trickled down her cheek, taking faint traces of her mascara with it. She could feel the blush in her cheeks rising in embarrassment and raised her hand to wipe away all evidence of her crying but Imogen got there first.

Her fingers were gentle as they softly brushed against the porcelain skin, lingering longer than was strictly necessary.

A choked gasp escaped from the witch, a rare wave of emotion caught in her throat. It scared her how well the younger woman seemed to know her. It _really scared her, _yet it made her feel…

…she wasn't sure what the appropriate word was. Until Imogen, no one had taken the time to try to get to know her and, if they had, most had admitted defeat when they hit her defences for the second time.

The gym-mistress had persevered through it all and, now, she was slowly melting the ice around her heart.

Trembling slightly, she took the tanned hand that was still on her face and brought it down to rest on her chest, letting the younger woman feel the steady thump of her heartbeat; showing her that she was not the heartless woman they thought her to be.

To say Imogen was surprised by the action was an understatement. Opening her mouth to say something, she was cut off as Constance placed a long manicured finger over her lips, effectively silencing her.

Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved, they simply stared into each other's eyes. Green on brown and brown on green; so many emotions conveyed and shared in that one gaze.

Closing the gap between them, Imogen leant forward and placed a small kiss on the burgundy lips, instantly feeling the usual jump of ecstasy in her heart and a low moan echoing in her ears as the formidable deputy not only responded to the kiss but also deepened it.

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><p>There were days where Imogen had to pinch herself for fear that this…whatever 'this' was, was all a dream. With Serge, it had been nice; their kisses had been sweet, but with Constance, however, it was electric; it was magical. The level of passion hidden beneath the cold exterior was both overwhelming and beautiful.<p>

Barely recovered from the nasty business with Sybil and the lamp, her heart had been in her mouth, following her brief phone call with the headmistress. Imogen suspected that the call had been more for Amelia to calm her own nerves more than anything else, but she couldn't help but wonder how much – if anything – the older witch knew about her relations with the deputy headmistress?

As soon as she had put the phone down, she had wept until there were no tears left to shed. She had been unable to focus on her classes, her reports, or anything else remotely relating to the school; all she had wanted was Constance, to hold her in her arms and know that she was safe.

Imogen's own heart physically ached at the knowledge that, a few hours longer, and she would have lost this magnificent and majestic woman for good.

Constance Hardbroom.

The woman she had almost lost and had not yet told her the most important thing.

Those precious three words.

The nature of their relationship, changed forever, in eight simple letters.


End file.
